


The Diary

by MoNigheanDonn1743



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 12:08:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15930128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoNigheanDonn1743/pseuds/MoNigheanDonn1743
Summary: When architect Jamie Fraser inherits a derelict Lallybroch from a distant relative, he decides to get away from the stresses of his life in Edinburgh, and take on the project of seeing it restored to it's former glory. There he finds a diary that will change his life in ways he could never had expected.





	1. Chapter 1

“Jesus Christ, Ned.” He growled, throwing his messenger bag down onto the old rickety table. “You’re like a bunch of fuckin’ adolescents. I told ye I wanted her out before I left, so tell Mackenzie to pull his finger out of his arse and get it done!”  

“But, Sir, she’s pregnant…”

“I don’t give a shit.”

“She’ll sue…”

“Aye. An’ that’s why I keep ye on retainer.” He spat as he raked his clenched fingers roughly through his hair. He’d been out of the office for all of four fucking hours and it was already going to shit. “I’m takin’ a break, Ned. I _need_ a fuckin’ break. So, deal with it, an’ square the details with Murtagh. I’ll be back in a few weeks.”

He hung up without waiting for a response and tossed his phone down on the table beside his bag. Was it really too much to ask that the imbeciles think for themselves? Did he not pay them enough to expect that they do their fucking jobs, without bitching and moaning every five Goddamn minutes?  

He seemed to be spending half his life cleaning up after the mindless, irresponsible mistakes of the people he hired to make _his_ life easier. It was insanity, and hardly surprising that his blood pressure was through the bastard roof.  

He winced, and dropped his hand to his pounding heart, trying uselessly to ease the ache, as it clenched and spasmed in his chest. If he wasn’t careful, he’d give himself a major heart attack by the time he was forty.  

Or so the long legged, sinfully attractive, doctor had told him, when he’d been rushed to A&E last month, by his pain in the arse sister.

It was that visit, and the three weeks of constant nagging, that had finally lead him to this God forsaken shit-hole, in bum-fuck nowhere.

“What the hell am I doin’?” He sighed as he kicked aside a plank of wood and threw himself down onto a threadbare couch. It creaked and groaned under his weight, and he grimaced as dust moats flew up around him, filling the air with the musty stench of decay.  

Maybe he’d finally lost his damn mind. Surely nothing but sheer madness could have driven him out of the city, away from his home and business, to tackle a project like this alone.  

He dropped his head back against the couch, groaning at his utter stupidity, as he eyed the huge hole in the ceiling with distaste.

The entire place was falling apart around his ears.

If he had any sense left at all, he would get back in his car, drive the hundred and fifty miles back to Edinburgh, and call his contractor to come and deal with it.

The entire estate was fit for nothing but the blunt end of a bulldozer, and if he’d only taken the time to really look over the photographs before he came, he would have known that. But he’d been up to his eyeballs in contacts, and too busy cleaning up after yet another one of Mackenzie’s fuck ups, to give them more than a fleeting glance.  

A rookie mistake he hadn’t made since his first purchase twelve years ago.

But he wouldn’t leave. He needed this time away. He hadn’t taken a holiday in over ten years, and despite the mammoth task before him, the fresh air and exercise would do him good. He shuddered to admit it, even to himself, but his brush with death had scared the shit out of him.  

He worked too hard and he’d known that for a long time. He’d lived for late nights, early mornings, and constant board room battles, as he’d built his billion pound empire up from the ground. Most of the time surviving on nothing more than caffeine, alcohol and sex.

But he’d done it, and at the ripe old age of thirty six, he owned more land and property in Scotland than anyone ever had. He was king of his own little world, and he was paying the price.  

He scraped his hand over his face, and with a sigh, he pushed to his feet and moved towards the window. It was too dark in here to really see how bad the room was, he needed more light, and until the generator arrived tomorrow, the natural kind was all he had.  

Gripping the handles of the aged oak shutters, he eased them apart, flooding the room with the bright afternoon sunlight. He squinted against the glare and blinked, trying to clear his vision enough to examine the wood.  

If he wasn’t mistaken, and he very rarely was, the shutters were original, and in surprisingly good condition. Like everything else in this place, they’d need work, but it was a good start. He was a perfectionist, he _hated_ using replicas, and wanted to keep as many of the original features as he could.

Especially if he was planning to keep the place.

He heard his phone vibrate against the table, and closed his eyes, counting to ten silently, before turning and walking out of the room.  

What part of _do not contact me_ did they not fucking understand?  

Unless the whole company was going under, he’d left strict instructions that he wasn’t to be disturbed, and if that happened, then Murtagh or Jenny knew exactly where to find him.

Well maybe not exactly.

He wasn’t even sure he knew where he was.

The estate, Lallybroch, had apparently been in their family for generations. Built by some long dead ancestor, and had passed from father to son, until all but one member of the family had emigrated to the colonies. But it had still been Fraser lands, and he’d surprisingly known nothing of it, until a lawyer had turned up at his offices two years ago with the inheritance paperwork.

He’d been in the middle of three massive renovation projects, and hadn’t had the time to come out and investigate. But he’d had the land and property surveyed, and planned to have a design team come out at some point to see what they could make of it.

Until his visit to the damn hospital.

Overnight he’d gone from feeling invincible, to being acutely aware of his own mortality. Apart from his shitty liquid diet, he _did_ look after himself. Christ, if he wasn’t at his desk, or entertaining female company, he was at the gym, or in the pool.

And when he did find time for food, he ate well.  

But it wasn’t enough, it was the stress and his overall lifestyle, that was slowly killing him. He needed to make a change, and Lallybroch was the perfect opportunity.  

With a sigh he stepped out into the sunlight and slowly made his way over to his SUV. He needed to get his things, choose a room to sleep in, preferably one without a huge hole in the floor, and start his initial assessment.  

After grabbing his rucksack, sleeping bag, and the blow up mattress he’d brought, he turned and looked up at the house. It was impressive, and he knew from the survey that it was structurally sound, but the work it would take to get it inhabitable was daunting. With only these first few weeks, and then the occasional weekend, it would take him months, if not years, to get it how he wanted it.  

He’d done this so many times before; taken an old stone castle from the edge of ruin, and created a timeless masterpiece. But it had been a long time since he’d gotten his own hands dirty in the process. Of course there were jobs that he wouldn’t be able to do himself, and those he’d gladly hand over to his contractor. But right now he needed solitude and the peace that came with it.  

Leaving his gear in the hallway he walked from room to room, opening shutters and taking in the space. It was almost eerie. The old Laird had apparently died a bachelor almost three years ago, and he’d lived here alone for all ninety eight years of his life.

The building itself had fallen into complete reck and ruin, but if you could see past the crumbling plaster, and the holes in the ceiling, it looked as though he’d just nipped out. His reading glasses were still on the desk in the study, next to a book he’d apparently been reading. A coffee cup and a breakfast bowl sat molded and black on the kitchen table, and his clothes still hung neatly in a bedroom wardrobe.  

But it was the complete lack of modernisation that fascinated Jamie. The old man had done nothing whatsoever to change the place. At some point, most likely before the turn of the twentieth century, running water had been added. But there was no proper heating, no electricity, and only a rudimentary kitchen and bathroom on the ground floor.

Like the shutters, the flooring, and the windows, most of the furniture looked original, like they’d been here as long as the house. Some were unfortunately destined for the skip. But others were near perfect, and with the books stored neatly in the library, there must have been hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of antiques stored in the dilapidated old castle.

He shook his head in amazement as he made his way back to the hall to collect his things. The hole above the parlor pushed through into the master bedroom, so he’d chosen a smaller room at the back of the house to sleep in. It still held a solid oak bed frame, and while the mattress would have to go, it was still sturdy enough to hold his weight.

Dropping his bags to the floor beside it, he carefully pulled off the pillows and sheets, threw them to one side, and lifted the mattress. It was moldy and damp, and he grimaced as he flipped it over and dragged it off the bed.  

A leather bound book tumbled to the floor, and he quickly stepped over it, almost tripping over his own feet to avoid damaging it. Cursing under his breath, he heaved the mattress out into the hall and propped it up against the wall. Like the generator, and a selection of tools and equipment he’d thought he’d need, a large skip would be delivered tomorrow. But for now, the mattress could stay there.  

Wiping his hands on his jeans, he walk back into the bedroom and scooped up the book. He turned it over in his hands, and ran his thumb along the edge of the pages. It was a notebook of sorts, and he frowned in confusion as he brought it up to his nose and sniffed lightly.

It smelled strongly of leather, ink and parchment and was clearly new; newer than it should have been, considering no one had lived there for three years. But what confused him was that he’d seen other books just like it, sitting on the shelves in the library, yet those had looked at least a hundred years old.  

Unless there was a bookmaker in the village that had been around for centuries, and still kept to the old practices, it didn’t make sense. You couldn’t buy books like this on Amazon.  

He ran his thumb over the pages again, stopped part way through, and flipped it open.  

 

> _…to do when Mary came up from the village with the news that he was back. I had hoped that he had been lost in battle or had given up his search. It has been almost a year since that faithful day, and we have heard not a word of his return. But I was stupid and foolish to hope, and I once again live in fear of discovery._

Not a notebook then, but a diary, and it _was_ new. The ink was too fresh to be anything but. Yet the gentle cursive writing, and the thick creamy parchment, spoke of the old. Pursing his lips, he closed the book and placed it on the bedside table.  

Someone had been here recently, a woman by the sounds of things, but if she’d stayed for long he’d seen no other sign of her. A small part of him wondered if she had in fact been discovered. It almost sounded like she’d been in an abusive relationship, and had been hiding here from her abuser.  

As he pulled out his air bed and the battery powered pump, he contemplated calling the police. But what the hell would he tell them? Without delving further into her private words, he had no way of knowing who she was, and even then, who writes their own name in a diary?  

And why did he even care?  

He wasn’t known for his empathy, he generally didn’t give a shit about anyone but himself, and he wouldn’t start now.  

After laying the air bed on the frame, he started the pump and pulled out his sleeping bag. Until he got the water running clean, and new propane gas delivered, he wouldn’t be able to sleep here every night. But he had enough provisions to see him through the day, and he’d drive up to the village at some point tomorrow to find a bed and breakfast.  

But there was still a few hours of daylight left, and he wanted to get the blue prints out. To get a real feel for the place, and start drawing up some plans. Yes, he’d keep every original feature he could, but he never did things by halves. If he was going to turn Lallybroch into a second home, he wanted more light, more space, and every modern convenience known to man.  

After unclipping the pump, he lay the sleeping bag out on the bed, and made his way over to the window. Like all of the others downstairs, it was small, old, and made of warped, single pained glass and rotting wood. Unfortunately they would all have to go.  

Some would be bricked over, some widened, and other new ones created. But all would be triple glazed, sashed and in keeping with the original designs. Even the large French doors he planned to install on the lower level. The view at the back of the house was magnificent, and he’d be stupid not to make the most of it.  

Movement down below caught his eye and he frowned and stepped closer to get a better look. The window was caked with dust, so he carefully wipe the glass with the edge of his t-shirt, and looked down.  

“What the hell?” He blinked and moved closer still, his nose almost pushing up against the glass.

There was a woman crouched down on the soft lawn, digging in a patch of earth, pulling up weeds and setting aside vegetables. He couldn’t make out her face, but her dark hair was piled up on top of her head, and she was covered from neck to toe in a dark, woollen dress. She looked like she’d just stepped out of the eighteen hundreds, and he gaped at her, his blood pressure rising at her audacity, before turning and striding from the room.

Was she the woman that had left the diary?

If she was, he planned on finding out just how she’d gotten in the house, and to make sure she couldn’t do it again. He’d come here to be alone, to escape all the shit he’d left in Edinburgh, and the last thing he needed was a squatter. This was his space, his land, and she was fucking trespassing.

He rushed down the stairs, through the door and across the courtyard. The high walls that butted up to the house meant he had to leave though the archway and round the whole of the house. But when he got to the back, his temper rising and his heart clenching, he froze.  

“What the ever loving fuck?”  

Had he completely lost his bearings? He could have sworn that the bedroom over looked the back of the house. But it couldn’t, because the whole space was covered with weeds, grass and brambles almost as tall as he was. They were so thick and twisted that he couldn’t make his way though if he tired.  

Quickly retracing his steps, he walked back though the court yard, and around to the other side of the house. But it was just the same, and as he looked up at the gable ends, he noticed that the windows were boarded up.  

So it _had_ to be the back of the house.  

Pissed off and confused, he stormed back into the house and up the stairs to the bedroom. Growling in frustration when he looked back out of the window.  

She was still there, still digging in the earth, without a care in the world, or a bramble or tall weed in sight. The ground was flat, the grass short and well tended, with herbs and vegetables growing in even rows of overturned dirt.  

Pulling his t-shirt off over his head, he used it to clean each pane of glass quickly, and then knocked sharply on the glass. She looked up startled, and as she rose quickly to her feet, dusting her hands on her skirt, he got his first good look at her.  

He wasn’t sure what surprised him more; her dark haunted eyes, or her stunningly beautiful face. She was pale, too pale, and too thin. With delicate cheekbones, pink pouty lips and long fluttering eyelashes. Her dress was corseted, and clenched her narrow waist tightly, before flaring out over her hips and down to the floor.  

She looked half staved, and as shocked as he did, as she stared up at him, wide eyed and alarmed. He looked away and quickly flipped the latch on the window and shimmied it up the frame. If he couldn’t find her down there, he’d talk to her from up here.  

But as he held the frame in place, and leaned through the gap, his heart spasmed and he froze.  

_I’m going fucking crazy!_

His wild eyes shot around the space, from one end to the other and back, as he tried uselessly to absorb what he was seeing. But he couldn’t, it didn’t make sense. He’d seen it, seen her, with his own two eyes, so how the fuck was everything gone?  

There was nothing out there to see, but the weeds, brambles and tall yellowing grass. There was no garden, no overturned patches of earth, and no haunted girl.

Nothing.

“Fuck!” He cursed as he stepped back and carefully closed the window. He looked back through the glass, just to make sure. But it was the same, there was nothing there.

She was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

 

His practiced eyes moved swiftly between the smooth white paper and the shadowed visage of the old stone castle. Seeing beyond the clinging moss and grime, and guiding his hand as it danced effortlessly across the page. Together they erased every scar and crevice that spoke of wear and decay, and captured perfectly those that breathed history and character, as his vision slowly came to life.  

He folded back the papers edge to check the blue print beneath, and with a sigh, he stepped back and folded his arms. A window on the first floor was out of place and needed to go. But it was the only window that let light into that end of the hallway. To lose it, meant he’d have to lose the room beside it to have use of it’s window, and in turn, creating one large open space.  

It was a minor alteration, something he’d done a thousand times before. But as he tried to picture it, to see the results in his minds eye, all his could see were the haunted eyes of the girl no longer there.  

His hand came up to his face and he rubbed firmly at the point between his furrowed brows, trying to ease the tension. He could feel a headache coming on, and with _his_ blood pressure, that was never a good sign.

But, in light of what had happened, it was hardly surprising.

He’d come to Lallybroch to recuperate and regroup. To remember what it was that he loved about architecture. To escape the stress and the pressure of the life he’d created, and to find himself again.  

Yet, instead, what he’d found was a fucking ghost.

No, she wasn’t a ghost, he didn’t believe in ghosts. He may be going insane, but he wasn’t desperate enough to try to justify his madness with the supernatural.  

Not even to himself.  

But even if he _was_ , that didn’t explain the garden, and he’d seen _that_ as clearly as he’d seen _her._

It could be the medication he was on fucking with his head, or further signs of the stress he’d been under, or even an indication of something more sinister. But whatever it was, whoever _she_ was, he couldn’t get her out of his damn mind.  

She was haunting him.

“Ye need to let it go, Fraser.” He sighed, as he moved back to the table and picked up his eraser.  

He studied the drawing carefully, then rubbed it across the page, erasing both windows, before grabbing his pencil and sketching one beautiful, high arched window in their place.  

It wasn’t perfect, it would need work, but he marked it’s creation, and the removal of the walls on the blue prints, and rolled the whole thing up. He was done for today, he’d lost his focus, and the headache was getting worse.  

After carefully sliding the drawings into the tube, he collected his tools together and popped the boot of the Range Rover. He’d be starting the clean up tomorrow, and he didn’t want to lose them in the process. Speaking of which, he needed to call Gail. There was more shit in this place than he’d anticipated, and he had a few changes to make with the contractors.

Dumping his things in the boot, and making sure the car was locked up, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and made his way into the house.

“Missing us already?”  

“Hardly.” He scoffed at his PA, as he closed and locked the front door behind him. “Have we still got those shipping crates we used in the move?”

“Yeah, there’s a few in the basement, but not many that are empty. Why?”  

“I need at least thirty out here. So, send someone down there to see what we have. If there isn’t enough, call Duncan at Green-space and order the difference. Tell him I need them tomorrow.”  

“You do realise that I’ve no idea where the hell you are, and that it’s almost seven PM?” She huffed. “Who am I going to send down there at this time?” Jamie looked at his watch and, seeing that she was right, he sighed and scratched at his head.  

“Murtagh’s got the address, and there’s a bottle of rat poison in it if ye do it yerself now.”  

“Cambridge?”

“Don’t push it.”  

“Fine, Monkey 47 and they’re yours by midday.” She bartered making his lips twitch. She was a pain in his arse most days, but she was damn good at her job, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit that he’d be lost without her.

“Fine, but I want them by ten.”

“Done. Anything else, Milaird?”

“Yeah. Why are ye still in the office at seven on a Friday night? Don’t ye have a home to go to?”  

She huffed a deep scathing laugh, and then three beeps signaled that she’d hung up on him. Chuckling to himself, he pulled up his iMessages and sent her a text.

 - _Get the boxes ordered…and your Gin…then GO HOME!_

_\- What? You mean I have to order my own gift?_  

  _\- I’m sure you know my card details well enough by now._  <(*)

 - <(*) _??_

  _\- It’s a bird…there’s no middle finger emoji!_

  _\- Yeah there is_  

Laughing in earnest now, he pulled up the number for Hugh Munro and dialed. Gail worked as hard as he did most days, the least he could do is call his own damn contractor and let the poor girl go home to her husband.  

He’d worked with Hugh since the beginning, when he’d turned up at his construction site with nothing but a dream and empty pockets. He’d been the first, and only contractor, that had even stopped long enough to even listen to his ideas.

Fresh out of university, and using his fathers house as collateral, he’d arranged a loan from the bank and purchased an old, run down Manor House at auction. He’d laid out almost all of the eighty grand he’d borrowed and had nothing left to do the work with.

He’d done what he could himself, slaving twenty hours a day, while trying to find someone else who could lend him the money, but he’d been getting nowhere.  

Until Hugh had put his faith in him.

He’d bankrolled the rest of the project. Supplying the materials, tools and specialist to do the work that Jamie couldn’t, and thankfully it paid off. He’d sold the property for just under six hundred grand eight months later, settled his debts, and together they moved onto the next project.  

Four years ago, Hugh had been on the verge bankruptcy. His Ex-wife having completely cleaned him out. So Jamie had purchased Munro Construction, bringing it under his own umbrella and kept Hugh on as the CEO.  

When the old man retired, he’d merge the two companies completely and take on the role himself.  

If he wasn’t dead by then.  

As he explained to Hugh what materials he needed, and changed the order for one large skip to three huge container skips, he slowly made his way up to the bedroom.  

“How much shit is there in that place?” Hugh laughed as Jamie stopped at the window and looked down.

“More than will fit in those containers.” He sighed unsure whether he was relieved or disappointed to see that she wasn’t there. “I need to call Jerry in as well. There’s a small fortune in antiques in here.”

“Yer no keepin’ em?”

“Some. I’ll catalogue what I want to keep before I call him.”

“Are ye sure ye want to take this on yerself? I saw the blue prints, lad. It’s a big place, it’s no a small undertakin’.” Hugh cautioned making Jamie laugh incredulously.

“That’s an understatement.”

“Aye.” Munro sighed quietly, “Let me send a team out to help ye.”

“No. Other then getting someone in to look at the furnace, and to check the mains water, I’m fine for now. I’ll spend the next couple of weeks doing what I can, then I’ll have a better idea of what I want and who I’ll need.”

“I’ll send Alec an’ Colin up with the stuff tomorrow, let em take a look.”

Jamie sighed and slouched back against the wall. There was no point arguing with the stubborn old coot. He could rant and rave until he was blue in the face, and the two plumbers would still arrive tomorrow at the arse crack of dawn.

“Fine. But if your ugly mug’s in that lorry, I’m barring the doors.” He warned before hanging up and tossing his phone on the bed.

Hugh was wrong, Lallybroch wasn’t big, it was huge, and in reality he should be converting it into a boutique hotel, rather than keeping it as a house.  

Aside from the three main floors, there was the basement, the attics, the staff quarters and the outbuildings. He’d not ventured into any of them yet, he wanted to get the main house cleared out first.  But there was enough space for it, and plenty of land to add a spa, tennis courts and a golf course.  

It would make a nice addition to his portfolio.  

Maybe if he’d sent the design team in, rather than come up here himself, that’s exactly what he would have done. It was too big to live in by himself, and with no plans to ever marry or co-inhabit, if he wasn’t careful he’d end up like it’s previous occupier.  

But now that he’d seen it, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He tried to tell himself that it had noting to do with the girl he’d seen, but as he once again looked out of the window, he knew he was lying.

“Ye fit for bedlam, ye crazy bastard.” He huffed, as he pushed away from the wall and sprawled himself out across the bed.  

Without thinking he stretched his hand out and grabbed the diary off the bedside table. It was another thing that had been bugging him. He wanted to know who it belonged to, and he want to know what had happened to her.  

With a sign, and a deep sense of guilt for invading her privacy, he thumbed through it until he found the last completed page. Like before, the words stared partway though a sentence, so he flipped back a page and frowned down at the date scrawled neatly part way up the page.

_1747?_

He’d be hard pushed to believe that it was from _19_ 47 never mind _17_ 47\.  

But maybe she was as bat shit crazy as he was.

 

> _Thursday 15th June 1747_
> 
> _Catherine McKimmie passed away last night having just given birth to a beautiful baby girl. I tried everything I could think of to do, but it was hopeless. The afterbirth tore away, and I could do naught to stem the bleeding._
> 
> _Mr McKimmie is, of course, angry and devastated, and in his wrath, he all but threw me from the house. Not that I can blame him. He lost his love, the young mother of his child. Who else is there to blame but the woman to whom her care had been entrusted?_
> 
> _My heart breaks for him and young Catherine, and I could find no sleep as I wept for the loss and pain they must both suffer. I wish desperately that there was something I could have done to prevent it. But her plight was beyond my merger capabilities, and all that I can do now is pray for her soul as she rests within the arms of our Lord God._
> 
> _Until I see you again, rest well my dear friend, and be safe in the knowledge that you are loved and always will be._

It was either complete fabrication, or she was definitely bat shit crazy! Why in the hell didn’t she just call for an air ambulance? Or for that matter, why didn’t the woman’s husband? The diary was _new_ so despite her date markings, she _wasn’t_ stuck in the 18th century.  

Maybe it was a notebook after all, maybe she was writing a novel based around a diary. There was no other justifiable reason for allowing a woman to die in child birth.  

Yeah, he knew it still happened, but still. If this woman was a midwife, and it was _his_ wife she’d killed, he’d have her locked up for manslaughter and gross negligence.  

Sighing, he threw the book aside and lent over to grab his rucksack. He really needed a stiff drink, but as he’d been _strongly_ advised against it, he settled for the cold pasta he’d brought, a bottle of water, and his medication.

Though the debate was still out as to whether he should still be taking it or not. _Could_ Calcium Blockers and Nitroglycerin cause hallucinations? Or should he consider scheduling a brain scan when he got back to Edinburgh?

Rolling his eyes he popped open the Tupperware dish Jenny had given him, and pulled out a fork. Maybe he was over thinking it. Stress can have all kinds of untold effects on the mind, or it could simply be loneliness that had him conjuring up her image. Because even as he’d lay here reading the unknown woman’s diary, he’d been picturing the woman from the garden.

He could see her clearly in his mind, bent over the dressing table, her small form shadowed in candlelight as she immortalised her thoughts on paper.

As hallucinations go, he had to give his imagination credit: she really was beautiful.  

Against his better judgment he reached for the diary again, got himself comfortable, and opened it at the first page.  

 

> _Sunday 1st January 1747_
> 
> _It has been so long since I have had the opportunity to record my thoughts on paper, and it is a practice that I had not realised that I missed, until William presented me with this beautiful, leather bound journal._
> 
> _I attempted to refuse of course, for it is not proper that he gift me anything at all, and I had nothing to reciprocate with. But he insisted, and with Janet’s encouragement, I thanked him as warmly as I was able, and escaped to my room._
> 
> _It was a thoughtful gesture, and one that I shall always cherish. But I pray that he will not presume my acceptance to be a prelude for more. He is a dear, sweet man, and I value his friendship and protection greatly, but I cannot offer him more._
> 
> _Even in the aftermath of his death, my husband haunts me still, and I fear I will never be able to entrust my life to unto the hands of a man._
> 
> _Any man._
> 
> _Not even one so kind and gentle as William Fraser._
> 
> _Times are hard, with no money, few hands, and very little food, he needs the help and support of a woman stronger than I. Janet does what she can, but with Ian lost and the new babe on the way, her own strength has waned._
> 
> _I pray that in time he will come to see Mary the way she sees him. She loves him dearly, and could give him the support and the family he so desperately needs._
> 
> _These unfortunately are not the happy words I had hoped them to be. It is a new year and they should ring with celebration, so I will strive to be more joyful tomorrow._
> 
> _Monday 2nd January 1747_
> 
> _We have snow!_
> 
> _There, my challenge from yesterday is now complete, for I write that simple sentence with true childish glee. It is not yet eight AM and wee Jamie and I already have a small family of snow folk guarding the gates._
> 
> _I even managed to temp Janet away from her chores long enough to collect hats and scarves for our new neighbors._
> 
> _I will admit to none but myself, that I am frozen to the bone, and longing for the hot chocolate drink that Lamb and I indulged ourselves with in Paris. But I will continue to breathe excitement into our small party as we while away the hours, confined to the house._

As Jamie read, the furrow between his brow became more and more pronounced, until he was almost glowering at the page.

_How fucking dare she!_

It was bad enough that she’d been trespassing on his land, and squatting in his house. But to use his family, _his brother_ , as fodder for her story? That was below the fucking belt. She’d been researching them, she had to have been. Willie’s death had been splashed all over the tabloids, but how else would she know that he owned Lallybroch without looking at the land registry?  

Livid, he tossed the book across the room, and reached for his phone. He needed to speak to Ned. There was a chance that this wasn’t the only copy of the story. She could have had access to a computer and be attempting to get it published, and he wanted to know where he stood on privacy laws.  

Some way he _would_ find out who she was, and when he did, there would be hell to pay.


	3. Chapter 3

“I’ll admit that it’s strange. But I’m no’ really sure what you can do.” Ned explained in a voice so muffled that Jamie could hardly hear him over racket he was making in the background. He was banging cupboards, rummaging through draws, running water. If he didn’t stop, jamie was about to completely lose his shit. “Whoever she is, apart from trespassing, she hasn’t broken any laws, and even if she had, what could we even do without a name. Are ye sure there’s nothing in the diary?”

“I can hardly bloody hear ye! So will ye stop what ye doin’ for five fucking minutes and focus on what I’m sayin!” He growled as he climbed off the air bed, kicking his sleeping bag to the floor when it tangled around his feet. “She’s been in my house, Ned. She’s researchin’ my family!”

“Aye, I hear ye. But without a name ye ken there’s nothin’ I can do.” He reiterated, his voice clearer now that he’d stopped making so much Goddamn noice. “All I can suggest is that you send me the book. I’ll go though it for ye an’ compile a list of names to see if I can find a connection. Or ye could ask around the village, find out if there’s been anyone new in the area.”

Jamie balked at the idea of sending the diary to Ned. He didn’t know why, but just the thought of his lawyer going through it turned his stomach. He didn’t owe this woman a goddamn thing, she was invading his privacy, but for some unknown reason he couldn’t bring himself to let Ned invade hers.  

It almost felt too personal to share with anyone.

“I’ll go though it myself, It’ll be quicker, an’ I’ll send ye the list tomorrow.” He huffed as his eyes scanned the floor, looking for the book. “But I’ve no got time to be goin’ door to door. I pay ye enough to do the leg work, so send someone else up to fucking do it!”

“I’ll have Graham up there tomorrow.”

“Good. Tell him to keep it to himself.”

“Aye.”

Hanging up, he flexed his fist around his phone, and let his his head fall back. He was attempting to steady his breathing, taking deep breaths in though his nose and letting them out through his mouth, slowly, steadily. Putting into practice the relaxation techniques the doctor had given him. But he wasn’t sure how well they were actually working.

This project was supposed to be giving him an outlet for the stress. Yet he was more tense now than he had been when he left Edinburgh this morning. Between the state of the house, the diary and the girl, he wasn’t likely to make it through the trip alive.

He needed to let it all go, to put it to rest, to forget that he’d ever seen her and just get on with the job he was there to do. It was one random moment of insanity, and it was over and done with. The diary would be harder to forget, but he had to try. He’d spend tonight reading it from cover to cover, find what he needed, and hand the whole thing over to Ned.

He had a team of lawyers for a reason, and they could damn well earn their keep.

Taking one last deep breath, he straightened himself, and turned to look for the book. He’d expected it to be right there, sitting on the rug at the bottom of the bed where he’d thrown it. But it wasn’t. With his brows furrowed, he turned in a circle, scanning every inch of the room, from the window to the door.  

It was here, he knew it was. He’d seen it hit the wall, and fall to the floor.  

But there was no sign of it.  

Dropping to his hands and knees, he moved from the bed, to the wardrobe and then over to the chest of draws. Using the torch on his phone, he searched beneath each one carefully, yet he found nothing but dust-moats, dirt, cobwebs and a creepy dolls head. Growling in frustration, he sat back on his hunches, and looking around the room again.  

_Jesus fucking Christ!_

“Where the hell is it?” He growled, as he pushed back up onto his feet and turned off his torch. After shoving his phone in his pocket, he grabbed the edges of the wardrobe and heaved it away from the wall so he could check behind it.

It had to be in here somewhere.  

He was alone in the room, and he hadn’t left it for a second. So if, God forbid, that damn woman was sill here, hiding somewhere in his house, there was no way she could have been in and moved it.

The bedroom door was shut for fuck sake!

With no luck behind the wardrobe, he moved the chest of draws, the bedside tables, the curtains, the rug, his bag and the damn air mattress. But it was nowhere to be seen.  

Just like the girl in the garden the fucking thing had disappeared.  

“Fuck!” He screamed, as he threw his sleeping bag back onto the bed and yanked the bedroom door open. “I swear to God, if you’re still in this fucking house, you better damn well leave!” He yelled into the hall, before slamming the door and grabbing the chair.  

He wedged it tightly beneath the door handle, checked that it wouldn’t move, then stepped back clutching at his chest. The tight, clenching spasms echoed down his arm, numbing his fingers, and coating his brow in small beads of sweat.  

He shook his hand, attempting to ease the odd feeling, as he moved shakily over to the bed and grabbed his rucksack. The pain was getting worse, it always did before it got better, so he quickly popped two pills out of the packet and swallowed them dry.  

“Fucking hell.” He groaned, as he lay back carefully on the bed and closed his eyes. The pain was debilitating, and he rubbed firmly at the place where his aching heart lay, hoping to God it would pass soon. If it didn’t, he’d be calling his own air ambulance, and praying that he lived long enough for his sister to kill him.  

She hadn’t wanted him to come here alone, she was scared to death of this very thing happening, and had begged to come with him. But she had responsibilities, a husband and a child, and he’d needed the space.  

But maybe that hadn’t been the best idea he’d ever had.  

The heart attack that had sent him to the hospital had thankfully been small, and _this_ time he hadn’t needed surgery. But if he didn’t get his stress and blood pressure under control, next time he might not be so lucky.  

He didn’t have coronary artery disease. There were no blocked arteries or plaque build up, he’d never smoked or taken drugs. He exercised daily, ate healthy - when he had time to eat at all - and he didn’t have high cholesterol. What he _did_ have was coronary artery spasms caused by stress and there was no cure. At only thirty six he’d already damaged his heart beyond repair, and to prevent fucking it up completely he needed to change his lifestyle.  

And this wasn’t helping!

Gradually, the pain eased, and his oxygen staved heart fell into its natural rhythm. He took a deep breath, and then another, before he peeled open his eyes and glanced over at the chair. He laughed hollowly and shook his head. He was being a dick. He knew full well that no one had been in the room, no one had touched the diary. But on the slight chance that she _was_ still in the house somewhere, he’d leave it there.  

He didn’t really fancy get shanked or molested in his sleep.

Moving his eyes from the door, he looked over at where the diary should be and sighed. Had he well and truly lost his mind? Had he imagined it just as surely as he’d imagined the girl? He’d swear on his own life that he’d touched it, smelt it, read it. But he was genuinely doubting his own sanity.  

Objects, and people, don’t just vanish into thin air.  

Unless they’re not real!

In frustration, he ran his fingers through his hair and closed his eyes again. He couldn’t think about this now. He couldn’t think about it at all. He wasn’t ready to face the real possibility that he was going insane.

* * *

He woke with a start, his heart pounding and his whole body soaked in sweat. He’d been dreaming, he knew he had, but as his bleary eyes scanned the pitch black room, the memory of it faded and he couldn’t quiet grasp the edges.

Actually, he couldn’t even remember falling asleep at all. He did a quick inventory, and found that he was still fully dressed, sprawled sideways across the bed, with his feet planted firmly on the floor. It was dark, so dark that he couldn’t even see his hand as he raised it to swipe at his face.  

Dropping it to the bed, he searched blindly across the mattress for his phone. Fruitlessly patting at his sleeping bag, and knocking his rucksack to the floor, in his vain attempt to find it. As he moved to sit up, he felt the solid mass digging into his thigh, and flopped back down onto the bed so he could dig it out of his pocket. It came to life as he lifted it towards his face, and he squinted painfully against the sudden brightness.  

_Five past three._

What the hell had woken him up at five passed three in the morning? He usually slept like the dead and had to force himself awake when his alarm went off at six.  

With a deep, tired groan, he sat up, and after stretching the kinks out of his back, he flicked on the torch and shone it around the room. The chair was still pushed firmly against the door handle, the curtains were still open and the window was locked. Huffing out a deep breath, he turned it toward the bedside table looking for his water.  

His mouth was so dry his tongue was practically glued to the roof of his mouth. But as he grabbed for it, both the bottle and his phone slipped from his fingers and clattered down onto the wooden floorboards.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

With a shaking hand he fumbled across the floor for his phone, cursing as he knocked it under the bed, and had to fall to his knees to find it. But once he did, he brought it back up and aimed the light directly at the diary.

It was sat there, as plain as day, on the bedside table as if it had been there all along. But it hadn’t, he fucking knew it hadn’t! He’d checked over it, under it, around it, and there had been no damn diary!  

He turned the light back to the door and after climbing to his feet, he stumbled over to it to check that it was secure. It was, and so was the window. So unless there was a secret passageway he hadn’t seen in his search, nobody had been in here.  

Panicked and confused, he made his way slowly back over to the bed and stood staring down at the book, hesitant to touch it. If he was stark raving mad, there was no point going through it anyway. Anything he found would just be a product of his insanity.  

But if he wasn’t?

He pursed his lips, trying to decided what the hell he should do. If he reached for it, was he giving in to his psychosis? Would he wake up in six months time, with his arms strapped to his chest, and the walls around him padded and soundproof?

Probably.

But if he didn’t, if he left it there and tried to ignore it’s existence, his curiosity would eventually send him over the edge regardless.  

What he needed was a way to prove that it was real. To have someone else read it, touch it, and confirm that he didn’t already have one foot in to loony bin.

“Get a fucking grip, Fraser.” He groaned as he quickly reached for the diary and just as quickly placed it on the bed.  

Turning off his torch, he opened his camera app and snapped a photograph of the front cover. When the picture came up, clearly showing the leather bound book, he flipped it open and took one of the first page. Over and over, page by page, he took one photo after another, even a few of the blank ones, before he closed it and took a shot of the back cover.  

He’d keep them to himself for now, but if it vanished again, he’d send a couple on to Ned, or maybe Gail, with some pretence or another. But for now, he needed to believe that he’d just missed it in his search.

Not seeing the wood for the trees and all that.  

With a sigh, he toed off his shoes, stripped down to his boxers, and after grabbing the diary, he climbed onto his sleeping bag. He wouldn’t sleep now, he was too agitated, and he wanted get started on the list for Ned. So he propped himself up against the pillows, lay the diary on his stomach, and opened the photographs.

He flipped passed the one of the cover, and had intended to skip the first page. He’d already read it, and knew all the names she’d mentioned. But he stopped and brought the phone closer to his face. It wasn’t the page he’d thought it would be. It was just a short passage, and it was written in a different hand, in a different pen, and it had a name clearly inscribed at the top.

_Claire._

He’d been relying on the light from his screen and the flash when he’d taken the pictures. So he wasn’t sure if he’d missed a few pages and this was further in. Or whether he’d not noticed it when he’d read _her_ first entry. But he had to know.  

So, he closed down the photos, tuned on the torch, and placed his phone on his chest. The light shone up towards the diary as he lifted and opened it to the first page. There was no natural bend in it, the spine hadn’t been broken in like it had on the subsequent pages. So it almost clung to the leather cover.  

That’s why he’d missed it, and as he read it, he wondered if _she_ had too.

> _My dearest Claire,_
> 
> _I know well how you will bemoan my having purchased this journal for your use. In fact, I can all but see the chastisement in your dark expressive eyes._
> 
> _But I beg of you, please accept it as a small token of our friendship, and of the gratitude and affection I have long since felt towards you._
> 
> _You are an exceptional young woman, Miss Beauchamp, with a beautiful heart and an extraordinary mind. Both are deserving of a place to run free, and I pray you will find that within these empty pages._
> 
> _Yours eternally,_
> 
> _William Fraser._
> 
> _31st December 1746_

He flipped the page and reread her first entry before snapping the book shut and closing his eyes.  

He wasn’t an expert, but even his could see that the writing was vastly different. There were no similarities at all between the lettering. So clearly the first page had been written by someone else.  

So where did that leave him with the theory that it was a story, or the delusions of a living breathing woman? Had she dragged someone into it with her? Or could there be a simpler explanation?  

_Occam’s razor._

Had _he_ been completely wrong? _Could_ the book be from 1747? In all his years of experience in old estates, he’d never seen anything so well preserved. But the diary hadn’t been completed, the last entry had been about the mother dying in childbirth sometime in June 1747.  

If something had happened to the author, the one that _William Fraser_ was clearly so in love with, he could have preserved it. But that didn’t explain how it had found its way beneath the mattress.

He brought it up to his nose, and once again sniffed at the cover. It smelled and looked so new compared to the ones he’d seen in the library.  

_Shit._

_The library._

There were other books just like this down there. So, surely if it was older than it looked, they would be from a similar time? He’d go though the diary now, and then check the others in the morning to see if he could find any links. If there wasn’t any, he’d send the details onto Ned. If there was, he could finally put the damn thing to rest.  

But first he needed a drink.

And to find a place to piss without going outside.


	4. Chapter 4

 

> _Wednesday 4th January 1747_
> 
> _My enthralment with the snow has ended, and I now find myself in utter despair at the catastrophe it has wrought. How can something that is so beautiful, so peaceful, and joyous, in turn cause such heartache and devastation?_
> 
> _Has God not punished us enough?_
> 
> _Are those of us that were not slain in battle, or shot for treason, now destined to die of starvation?_
> 
> _In the blink of an eye our continued existence in the highlands has become all but impossible. There is no earthly way that we can survive here. William has suggested that we leave, and I’ll admit to considering that option myself, but where would we go?_
> 
> _I do not know what has become of him, and I am not ashamed to admit that I hope that he was lost at Culloden. But if he lives still, then leaving Lallybroch will only increase my risk of discovery._
> 
> _Besides, what of my new family? No highlander would be welcomed in the lowlands or beyond, and there are no ships available to carry us across the ocean to safety._
> 
> _There will be none until the spring, and I fear that then it will be too late._
> 
> _The hidden provisions, the ones removed from the reach of the redcoats, the preserves we were so reliant on, have gone. They were destroyed in the blizzard, when the weight of the snow became too much for the hastily built shelter._
> 
> _We are at a loss of what to do._
> 
> _I am at a loss._
> 
> *
> 
> _Thursday 12th January 1747_
> 
> _Janet and I have completed our store inventory and as a result, William has left to hunt. With so many mouths to feed, even on strict rations, we have only enough food to see us though to the middle of March._
> 
> _Should the garrison call for further supplies, I fear we shall perish long before then. Unfortunately, with Lord Lovat still at large, it is highly likely that they will._
> 
> _We have seen neither hide nor hair of the old fox, thank the Lord, but his actions have brought suspicion down on the whole clan; William in particular, and until he is captured I can see no end to their harassment._
> 
> *
> 
> _Tuesday 17th January 1747_
> 
> _Venison and onion stew has never tasted so good._
> 
> _I shall dream of it this night I am sure._
> 
> *
> 
> _Saturday 21st January 1747_
> 
> _I am overjoyed!_
> 
> _In the early hours of this morning, we welcomed Margaret Ellen Claire Fraser Murray to the world. It is such a big name for such a tiny girl, but I have no doubt that she will grow into it._
> 
> _She is the complete image of her beautiful mother. With jet black hair, a small nose, and delicately pursed lips. Yet she carries her fathers dark soulful eyes._
> 
> _Janet is well and recovering quietly with both of her children by her side. As would be expected, her happiness is unparalleled, yet tinged with the sorrow that young Maggie will never know her wonderful father._
> 
> _I know that Ian will be watching over them from heaven, and will be almost bursting with pride for his wife and new daughter. As well he should, for Janet has done him proud._
> 
> *
> 
> _Thursday 9th February 1747_
> 
> _Mrs Crook has injured herself again. She neigh on sliced her finger off while attempting to skin a rabbit. I have stitched it as best I can, but…_
> 
> _…As I feared, the redcoats have once again come to Lallybroch and I am truly terrified at what I may find upon my return. We have next to nothing left, but I pray to God that William will hold his temper and allows them to take what they will. Unfortunately I know the man well, and I expect that he will not._
> 
> _I can barely breathe with worry._
> 
> _Oh, that I could be there to at least see what is happening, but with the provision hole exposed, there was nowhere for me to hide. So, I now write by dim candlelight, in the icy confines of the cave on the north side of the estate._
> 
> _As young Rabbie MacNab ferreted me away though the shadows with naught but a candle, my shawl and diary, he assured me that he was not amongst them. But I am known to many, and I have been made aware that the reward for my recovery is still in place._
> 
> _Does this mean that he lives? Or are his family still willing to pay for my capture?_
> 
> _I do not know, and I do not wish to find out._
> 
> _William has written to his cousin in France, requesting passage on the next ship to sail from Inverness to the Colonies. I do not know if life in those far distant lands will be better then here, but one can hope and pray that it will be._
> 
> *
> 
> _Saturday 11th February 1747_
> 
> _After spending the night in the cave, I returned yesterday to find that William had taken sick. Overnight he has gone from a strong, robust man, to one who seems alarming frail._
> 
> _I am doing what I can to stem his fever, but he still burns hot, and has spent the past hours plagued by tremors and night-terrors._
> 
> _Mary sits beside him now, tending to his care while I attempt rest and Janet tends to the children. But I have requested that she fetch me if he worsens, for I know I shall not sleep._
> 
> _I truly fear for him, and I pray that his fever breaks soon._
> 
> *
> 
> _Wednesday 22nd February 1747_
> 
> _Like dominos, one person after the next has been overcome by the sickness that had stricken William. First it was Mary, then Janet, Mrs Crook, wee Jamie and young Rabbie._
> 
> _Save for the latter, thankfully within a day or so the crippling fever released each of its victims from it grasp. Although weakened by the illness, and coughing terribly, all are recovering, slowly but surely._
> 
> _Young Rabbie has had it worse then anyone and it breaks my heart to say that he now fights for his life in the room next to mine. I have never felt so helpless before, I long to go to him, to do what I can and take some of the burden from his mother, but I cannot._
> 
> _My head pounds, my throat scratches and I can barely stand with weakness. I know the fever is coming, for my skin burns, my mind feels foggy and my thoughts disjointed._
> 
> _Pray God see me though this._
> 
> *
> 
> _Wednesday 1st March 1747_
> 
> _We have lost young Rabbie._
> 
> _Those words pain me so greatly that I can scarce breathe. The dear boy fought to the last, but with so little food he had no strength left to beat the illness. Mary’s grief is profound, and she has left Lallybroch and returned to the village to mourn within the bosom of her family._
> 
> _The estate is silent._
> 
> _It is as though young Rabbie has taken with him the last shred hope we had, and we have been left bleak and desolate._
> 
> _We have nothing._
> 
> _It is hopeless. It is all just so hopeless._
> 
> *
> 
> _Tuesday 7th March 1747_
> 
> _William has gone raiding and I once again find myself sick with worry. It was a dangerous endeavour at the very best of times, but now with the clearance, and the constant redcoat presence, it is a death sentence._
> 
> _Janet is as worried as I, though she does a fair job at hiding it, so she is keeping us busy._
> 
> _Today we have been in the attic, and I find that I have never been so filthy in all my life. I have also developed a health fear of spiders._
> 
> _I have never been bothered by the critters before, yet when one is besieged by an army of the wee beasties, that are the size of ones hand, I am sure the change of heart is forgivable._
> 
> _Good lord, I itch still. It is as though they are still amongst my skirts._
> 
> _No, I cannot, I must go and change._
> 
> *
> 
> _Friday 10th March 1747_
> 
> _I caught and skinned my first rabbit today. It is a task that I never thought I would partake in, and yet here I am, home from the hunt, feeling proud to have provided for the family._
> 
> _And nauseated at having taken a life._
> 
> _I know, I know, it is but a rabbit and I have eaten plenty in my life. More now than ever before. Yet it was a living, breathing creature and, when I wounded it, I wanted nothing more than to heal it._
> 
> _I feel barbaric._
> 
> _I am sure, if he were here, William would have found vast amusement in my appearance, just as his sister has. For there I stood in the kitchen doorway, my hands bloodied, and my face streaked with tears, as I handed to poor soul to Mrs Crook._
> 
> _I actually think that I can still hear Janet chortling away somewhere below stairs._
> 
> _I was half starved, but the stew still sits heavily in my stomach, threatening to regurgitate._
> 
> _Thankfully, Janet will go tomorrow, and I can spend the day completing womanly chores and minding the children._
> 
> _A much more pleasant endeavour I hope._
> 
> *
> 
> _Thursday 16th March 1747_
> 
> _I hardly know what to write. In fact I can hardly write at all, for my pen shakes in my hand, and I cannot see through my tears._
> 
> _I have witnessed the impossible, lived through unimaginable horrors, and have suffered pain like no other. But never have I been more terrified._
> 
> _Time and again he threatened to kill me. Yet while the pain was nigh on unbearable, I think I always knew that he would not. He enjoyed the game too much, he enjoyed my agony, and the fear he instilled in me._
> 
> _But now, I have no such assurances._
> 
> _I did not know what to do when Mary came up from the village with the news that he was back. I had hoped that he had been lost in battle or had given up his search. It has been almost a year since that faithful day, and we have heard not a word of his return. But I was stupid and foolish to hope, and I once again live in fear of discovery._
> 
> _He knows I am close. I do not know how, but he always has. That’s why he comes back._
> 
> _I cannot run for he has eyes everywhere, and without William here, I cannot venture to the cave. I would not survive out there alone. So I am trapped, hiding amongst the spiders in the attic._
> 
> *
> 
> _~~Monday 10th April 1747~~ _
> 
> _~~There has been~~ _
> 
> *
> 
> _Sunday 4th June 1747_
> 
> _It has been so long since I have written and, while I had so much to say, there had been no order to my thoughts, and no passion for writing them out._
> 
> _As of yet I am not discovered._
> 
> _He has been back twice more, and has ventured to Lallybroch, but thankfully William was back and had time enough to shuffle me down into the new priest hole before he made the court yard._
> 
> _I sleep now with my door bared, my widow bolted and a blade hidden beneath my pillow. Not that I actually get much in the way of sleep. My ears strain in the silence of the night, listening to every creak and groan the house makes as it settles and I can never force my eyes to close._
> 
> _When I do eventually sleep from exhaustion I am plagued by night-terrors, with memories from my past, that have me screaming myself awake._
> 
> _Mary and William sleep in the room beside me, and I know that I must disturb them, for they look as exhausted as I._
> 
> _They married last week in a small church service._
> 
> _It was a beautiful moment and I could not be happier for them. William is helping her to heal from her loss, and she has made him whole._
> 
> _I feared that he would ask for my hand, and I saw his grief when word came of my husbands reemergence. But it is for the best that he did not ask. To refuse him would have pained me greatly, and am not a fit wife for any man._
> 
> *
> 
> _Thursday 15th June 1747_
> 
> _Catherine McKimmie passed away last night having just given birth to a beautiful baby girl. I tried everything I could think of to do, but it was hopeless. The afterbirth tore away, and I could do naught to stem the bleeding…_

The dawn light was just filtering into the room as Jamie came to the last passage. He already knew what it would say, he’d read it before. But he’d been so engrossed in her life that he read it again.

He wanted to know what had happened to her. Why did she stop writing? Did her husband find her? Did they emigrate to the colonies? Did they all die of starvation?

Stupidly praying for a continuation or conclusion, he flipped the page expecting to see nothing but the end of her final passage. But what he saw, what he read, froze his blood in his veins.

His heart thudded and his breathing stopped as he stared in horror down at the page.

It was impossible.

 

> _Friday 16th June 1747_
> 
> _Someone has been in my room. A man, one that I have never seen before. At first I was overcome with fear presuming that he has been sent by Jonathan._
> 
> _But now I do not know what to think._
> 
> _I was in my garden, pulling fresh vegetables for dinner when I heard someone knocking on the window. I looked up expecting to see Janet or wee Jamie, but instead I found a near naked stranger._
> 
> _He was stood in my window looking down at me, and with my initial glance I presumed it was William, for his hair was the same astonishing red. But then I recalled that William was not home, he had left an hour before with Mary to visit Grannie MacNab._
> 
> _The man was angry, that much I could see, and I thought for sure that he would come down and accost me. When he moved to open the window I was so scared I thought I might vomit. But as he flipped the latch he vanished._
> 
> _Complete disappeared into thin air._
> 
> _With the help of old Alec, Janet and I searched the whole house, but there was no sign of him anywhere, and no one else had seen him._
> 
> _But I know he was here, I know he was real, I saw him._
> 
> _And I think he may have read my diary._
> 
> _As I do every morning, I remember vividly placing it beneath my mattress before I began my chores today, but upon entry to my room, I discovered it open on the floor at the foot of the bed. I know no-one else here would invade my privacy in such a way, so it must have been him._
> 
> _Who is he?_
> 
> _Has he been sent by Jonathan? Have I been found? Or is there an entirely unexplainable explanation?_


	5. Chapter 5

It was with an eerie sense of calm that he slowly placed the diary on the bedside table, turned off his torch, and climbed out of bed. It was only just after five in the morning, but he was wide awake, and there was no point just lying there feeding his own insanity, when there was a shit load of stuff for him to get done. He needed to keep busy. He needed to occupy his mind with rational thought while he was still able.

Because in the strangest way imaginable, what he’d just read had made perfect sense to him, and that in itself was really fucking concerning. He was obviously delusional. Both the woman and the diary were products of his imagination, they had to be, there was no other logical explanation for it.

Sighing, he scrubbed his hand across his face, then bent to grab his rucksack. There was no point using clean clothes, he’d be filthy by the end of the day anyway, but he _did_ want clean underwear.

After changing his boxers, he pulled on his jeans and T-shirt from the day before, and sat heavily on the bed to slip on his socks and shoes. As he bent to tie his laces, he glanced sideways at the bedside table and let out a hollow, incredulous laugh.

“Of fucking course.” He murmured as he stood and lifted the corner of the air bed. The diary was there, resting neatly on the wooden slats, rather than were he’d left it just moments before on the bedside table.

Shaking his head, he dropped the mattress, grabbed his phone, toothbrush and water, and left the room.

Maybe he should just go back to Edinburgh. This place was obviously fucking with his head, and he needed to get himself checked out. He had the blueprints and photographs, and he’d seen the place for himself. So he could easily work on a design from his apartment and hire a project manager.

If he asked Hugh, he could have a team out here by the end of the week, and they could have the whole house gutted in a few days. With a couple of palms greased, it wouldn’t take him long to get permission to build a golf course, and by Christmas he could have a new hotel opened for business.

Geneva would most likely kick his arse. She’d had her hands full for months with Leoch, and she’d requested a break after the grand opening that was being held in a couple of weeks. But she wouldn’t tell him no, she never did.

After a quick stop in the grimy bathroom, to brush his teeth and take a piss, he found himself in the library. It was a room with a lot of potential, but it needed a shit load of work. With only two small windows, it was too dark. It needed more natural light and a couple of walls taking down, one of which housed a chimney.

Not impossible, but definitely a pain in the arse.

Walking around the desk, he took a seat in the worn leather chair and reached for the book the old man had been reading. Distracted as he was by his mental calculations of the room, it took him a moment to realise that it was one of the old diaries he’d seen yesterday. It lay open at an entry dated 12th July 1743.

The book fell back onto the desk, and he quickly slammed it shut, not caring if it completely disintegrated in his hand. He’d recognised the writing, it was the same as the inscription in the girls diary, and he just couldn’t deal with that now.

The dark room suddenly felt suffocating, like the walls were closing in on him, and he could hardly breathe. He needed to leave. Pushing to his feet, he turned quickly and left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

_Jesus Christ._

Could he not get away from it?

His hands dropped to his knees, and he hung his head, waiting as his breathing steadied and his heart rate slow down. The bloody house was like something out of _The Shining_. He’d only been here twenty four hours and it was already turning him into a frigging basket case. If he wasn’t careful he’d been taking an axe to a door.

With a sardonic laugh, he straightened himself up and pushed away from the wall. He had shit to do, and he could _not_ think about this now. Turning right down the hallway, he wondered from room to room, taking a closer look at the work that would need doing. It fucking chafed to admit it, but Hugh was right, the project was too much for him to take on alone. Even moving the furniture out, and crating up the antiques, would be next to impossible by himself.

Whether he turned it into a hotel, or kept it as a second home, he was going to have to swallow his damn pride and admit that he was wrong.

He need a team out here, and soon.

_Fuck!_

So much for peace and isolation.

Dragging his hand through his hair, he walked towards the window, and braced himself against the frame. There was absolutely nothing to see from this level, the view was completely blocked by the brambles that covered the back of the house. But he stared at them anyway, his mind seeing passed the sharp thorns, and ripe berries, to the woman who’d been there yesterday.

_Claire._

It had to be her.

As he’d assumed when he’d first seen her, when he’d raced out of the house to confront her. The woman in the garden, and the one who’d written the diary, were one and the same. There was no trespasser, there was no mysterious someone researching his family. There was just one, singular delusion that was manifesting itself in two separate entities.

It was the only explanation. He’d told absolutely no one about what he’d seen from that window. Even when he was discussing the diary with Ned, he’d not once mentioned seeing the girl or the garden. If anyone had seen him staring out of that window, knocking on the glass, they would have simply assumed he was crazy, as all they would have seen below were the brambles.

The only way she could have possibly known about the encounter, was if she’d been a part of it herself. But as she’d supposedly lived here two hundred and seventy one years ago, he highly doubted that she was still alive to write about it.

Especially not when she hadn’t looked a day over twenty five.

He had enough experience with mental illness to recognise the signs. But even though he knew rationally that she wasn’t real, and that he should hand the project off to someone else, and create a damn hotel, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He’d get what help he needed, but he was keeping control.

And he was keeping the damn house.

It was too early to call Hugh yet to make the arrangements, but there was still plenty of stuff he could do alone. Pushing away from the window, he dug his car keys out of his pocket and made his way outside to grab his laptop. The dining room held a massive oak table, and if he could move it up against the wall, he could set up in there and start compiling an inventory.

By the time he heard the the reverse signal, and the deep rumblings of an approaching truck, he already had two dressers emptied. Most of their contents were glasses and crockery, and he had them stacked carefully on the table, along with the ornaments and lamps.

The rest of the shit was discarded on the floor, ready to go in the skip, and the paintings were resting neatly against the wall.

After saving the spreadsheet, and closing his laptop, he grabbed his water and made his way outside. After working in the dimly lit room, the sunlight was blinding, and he held his hand up above his eyes, as he squinted down the dirt track.

There were two, forty foot trailers, carrying the containers, slowly making their way towards the house. Behind them were two box vans, an open bed truck and a minibus.

But leading the way was Hugh’s cherry red pickup.

“Fucking stubborn old bastard.” Jamie huffed, as he strode down the steps and jumped into his SUV. It was in the way, and he quickly threw it into reverse, and moved it down the side of the house.

He should have known that he would do this. He’d worked with Hugh long enough to know that he never fucking listened to a damn thing he said. Their conversation last night had been complete bullshit.

He could guarantee that the moment he’d ordered the generator, and told Hugh of his plans, the fucking arse would have put this whole thing in motion. He’d have studied the blueprints, looked at the photographs, and spoken to the surveyor.

Everything Jamie would normally have done himself.

It didn’t matter that just two hours before, he’d admitted that he would need help. What mattered was that he’d fucking told Hugh that he needed to be alone. He was one of the few people that knew what had happened, so he should have taken him as his word, rather than going behind his back.

Climbing back out of the car, he slammed the door, and lent back on the bonnet. With his jaw clenched, and his arms crossed tightly over his chest, he watched as Hugh drove around the arch and slowly approached.

“Ach, lad, dinna look so put out.” Hugh laughed, as he pulled up beside him and lent out of his window. “We’re here to help.”

“Unload the skips, leave the supplies, and take your fucking minions back to Edinburgh.” He growled stubbornly as he pushed away from the SUV. “I told ye I dinna want any help.”

“Aye, I ken ye didna want it, but ye need it, and I’m no leavin’ ye here to kill yerself, ye stubborn wee bastard.” Hugh huffed, without a hint of anger as he climbed out of the pick up and shut the door.

“ _I’m stubborn_?”

“Aye, an’ ye ken it well, Jamie Fraser. Even as ye stand there tryin’ to glower me into submission, ye ken that I’m right.” He nodded, patting him roughly on the arm, before turning to look up at the house. “It’s got a lot of potential.”

“Hugh…”

“Give over! If I take this lot back now, ye wee lasses will have me guts for garters.” He shivered. “Spare a thought for an old man, aye?”

Jamie rolled his eyes. Hugh had Jenny and Gail wrapped about his chubby little fingers, and it didn’t surprise him one bit that the two traitors had been in on this. He had a good mind to call his card company and put a block on the gin Gail had ordered last night. She’d accepted the gift under false pretences, taking what she damn well could before he fired her arse.

“I told ye that I needed the space. I’ve come here to get away for all the fuckin’ stress, the last thing I need is ye bringin’ it to me.”

“Ye so full of shit!” The older man laughed as he walked ahead of him, to examine the stone work. “Ye no stupid, lad, so stop actin’ as though ye are. Ye and I both know that ye’d already decided to call in reinforcements. There’s no way ye’v spent a day here without seein’ ye mistake. Besides, I asked Marcus to project…”

“No!” Jamie growled, as he moved in front of Hugh and crossed his arms. “This is _my _house, my company and my project. I’ll admit that ye were right, t’is too big a task to take on alone, but I’ll project manage the damn thing myself.”__

“I thought ye might say that. It’s why I left him back home an’ brought Fergus an’ his team. They’ll no cause ye any trouble.”

“You’re a sneaky bastard.” Jamie huffed, as he turned to walk away. The corner of his lips were twitching, and he wasn’t quite ready to admit defeat. No matter how many times Hugh pulled shit like this on him, he always fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

By throwing a bigger objection in his path, the dickhead had got him to surrender, and concede to keeping the crew.

“Are ye gonna show me around the place?”

“Aye. But let’s wait for Fergus. He’ll need to decide where he wants the skips.” He nodded, as the first of the trucks backed up towards the house. “Ye brought four?”

“Thought ye might need em.”

Jamie nodded again, and lent back against the stone balustrade to watch. He was pissed at the method Hugh had used to offer his help, and he still chafed at having people here invading his privacy. But he had to reluctantly admit that he was grateful, and he couldn’t deny that he’d chosen a good team.

Like him, Fergus was a perfectionist, and he demanded the same from his team. Not once in the five years Jamie had known him, had he ever had trouble with any of his sites. With Fergus as foreman, the project would all but manage itself, and it would leave Jamie time to work on his designs in relative peace.

“Where’s everyone stayin? I’ve no even completed the designs yet, they could be here for awhile.”

“Gail booked up the two B&B’s in the village.” Hugh admitted, making Jamie roll his eyes again. “She got ye a room an all. Apparently as soon as she dropped ye name, they couldna do enough. Yer a hot topic.”

“Why?” He frowned.

His self made wealth, success and the work he did with the heritage sites, made him something of a Scottish legend. But his work didn’t end at the boarder. He’d designed buildings and taken on renovations all over the world, and while he didn’t like it, he was used to the fame and the red carpet treatment.

But in the smaller, more rural villages, he usually had more anonymity, and he could generally pass by unnoticed. It was one of the reasons he’d wanted to come out here, but apparently he was shit out of luck.

“Because ye own the whole damn thing. It’s on Lallybroch lands and from what I can tell, they’re anxious to know what you’ll do with it. The old laird didna do much by all accounts.” Hugh shrugged. “Ye didna know?”

“I think ye’v already established that I came here knowing nothing.”

“Aye, ye were running scairt.”

“I’m not scared.” He lied rubbing at a phantom pain in his chest. “I just needed an escape.”

“If ye say so.” He winked as Jamie stood up straight and held his hand out to Fergus.

“It’s good to see ye.” Jamie smiled, as he shook the younger mans hand, and patted his shoulder. “Thank ye for coming out.”

“No, Milaird.” He disagreed as he looked up at the house and let out a low whistle. “When I saw the photos and Hugh told us it were your own house we’d be working on? You couldn’t have kept us away…it’s an honour.”

“Stand down, Lad.” Hugh laughed. “Nobody likes a sycophant.”

“Fuck off.” Fergus huffed as he took the front steps two at a time. “Now lets see what we’ve got to work with.”

Jamie threw Hugh a knowing smirk and followed the eager lad into the house. He wasn’t a sycophant, in fact he was far from it, he wouldn’t think twice about telling Jamie if his design was shit. But he was enthusiastic, and held a healthy dose of respect for the man he claimed had saved his life.

“Whoa, it’s like a ghost town in here.” Fergus whistled as he walked into the kitchen. “When did you say the old man died?”

“About three years ago.”

“Jesus. How did he live like this?” He questioned in awe as he reached out and flicked a patch of crumbling plaster from the wall. “We’ll have to take it all down to the stone, and install insulation and damp proofing. You’re keeping what features you can, right?”

“Aye, though I doubt much of anythin’ will be reusable. The shutters are sound, an’ the staircases, but the rest of the woodwork is fucked.”

“Right. Well we’ll see what we can salvage when we rip it all out.” He nodded as he left the kitchen.

They went from room to room, with Jamie keeping a constant narrative of the initial ideas that he’d had. He’d have a couple of weeks to get the basic design ready while the lads stripped everything out, and took the whole interior down to its bare bones. Then they’d been knocking down walls, bricking up windows, creating and blocking up doorways, and all before they even considered moving on to the damp proofing.

The whole house needed plumbing, wiring, and gas lines installing. Underfloor heating, insulation, new windows, doors and roof slates. The outside needed sandblasting and repointing, and the annex at the front, that currently housed the kitchen and bathroom, needed completely demolishing. It was surplus, and didn’t fit with his vision.

“Either you slept here last night, or you’ve got a squatter.” Fergus laughed, hitting too close to home as he bounced down onto the air mattress. “You’re the only billionaire I know that likes to slum it.”

“He’s the only billionaire you know full stop.” Hugh snarked, cracking the lad across the head “Git of his bed.”

“That’s child abuse!”

“Ye said it! Now stop actin’ like one an’ I willna have to treat ye like one.”

Jamie rolled his eyes, and left the two juveniles to it as he moved onto the room adjacent to his. There was already an old privy behind a concealed door, so it wouldn’t take much to make it into an en-suit bathroom. It wasn’t the master bedroom he would be using, but there were plenty of spare rooms on the top two floors. Even if he turned half of them into bathrooms, he’d still be left with an eight bedroomed house.

What the fuck was he going to do with eight bedrooms and nine bathrooms?

“I think we’ll put two skips at the back, one at the side, and one at the front.” Fergus announced, as he followed Jamie into the hall. “If we take the windows out, we can just throw everything down, I’ve brought the shoots.”

“I was thinking the same.”

“Good.” He nodded as he turned to head up the stairs, “Here this fell on the floor, I wasn’t sure where you wanted it.”

On reflex, James hand shot out to catch what Fergus had thrown, and as he caught it,and realised what it was, his heart lodged itself in his throat.

_shit_

“Where was it?” He asked his voice quieter then he’d intended, as he grabbed at Fergus’ arm and held the diary up.

“It was on the floor at the side of the bed, why? Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He mumbled, as he released the lad and quickly turned to walk back into his room.

_What the fuck?_

He’d just spent the morning convincing himself that the diary wasn’t real, but if Fergus could see it…

“Talk to me, lad. Ye look like ye’v seen a ghost. It’s no ye heart is it, do ye need me to call someone?” Hugh asked quietly, as he placed a supporting hand on Jamie’s shoulder.

“No…no, it’s just…”

_Just what?_

“Follow me.” He ordered, as he left the room and rushed across the hall, down the stairs and into the library. “I found this book yesterday.” He explained holding up the diary as he quickly approached the desk. “Come, take a look and tell me what you think.”

He opened both books and lay them side by side on the desk. The older of the two he opened up at a random page, the newer one he opened to the inscription, before he stepped back and made room for Hugh.

“Is it just me, or are they exactly the fucking same?”

The older man pulled his glasses out of his top pocket and lent over the desk. He lifted one book and then the other, turning them this way and that, before looking back up at Jamie.

“I’m no expert, ye’d need a writin’ analyst for a proper assessment, but aye, I’d say they were the same. The books are definitely the same though, with is really bloody strange…this one looks new.”

“Aye, it does. But do me a favour…read the last entry.” He asked cautiously, as he crossed his arms and lent back against the desk.

His heart was pounding with anticipation, and he could feel a cold sweat building on his back. He had no idea what words Hugh was going to read, but whichever they were, the were pivotal.

“Out loud?” He asked, and when Jamie nodded he slowly flicked through the pages until he found the last entry. “The writings different…it’s the lass I presume.”

“Aye.”

“Friday 16th June 1747….Someone has been in my room….”

_Well shit!_


	6. Chapter 6

He ran his thumb around the rim of his pint glass, staring blindly at the dark murky liquid, as laugher rose up in the crowd around him. From the moment he entered the pub, he’d been bombarded with one question after another, as eager locals had come over to meet the new Laird Broch Tuarach.

Hugh hadn’t been lying when he’d declared him a hot topic. They’d wanted answers to questions he’d not even thought to ask himself, and while it pissed him off, he patiently explained his basic plans.

Over and over again.

Thankfully, the pub quiz had started ten minuets ago, and he’d been left in relative peace. After finding a quiet corner, he’d eventually sat down, and had been staring into his Guinness ever since.

He didn’t want to be here.

After a day spent digging through a derelict house, and crating up hundreds of books and antiques, a hot shower, clean clothes, and a cold pint had been more than welcome. But he was passed ready to get back.

Including Jamie, Hugh and Fergus, there was a team of sixteen working on the house. Five of them had set to work on the generator, running wires, and setting up lamps all throughout the house. The remaining ten had been working with Jamie to get everything packed up. Together they’d managed to completely empty the ground floor and everything, apart from the old diaries, and the crap they’d dumped in the skip, were now on their way to Edinburgh.

He’d keep everything in storage for now, and take Jerry with him to go though it, when he went back home. But the diaries he’d needed to keep.

After Hugh had finished reading the passage, he’d questioned Jamie relentlessly. He wanted to know why it was so important. But having absolutely no idea what the hell was going on, he’d simply shrugged, and told him the same story he’d told Ned.

There was a squatter, and she’d been researching his family.

Hugh had accepted his explanation, but had still eyed him warily as he’d left the room to help the lads set up the generator. In a state of mind numbing confusion, Jamie had pulled out his phone and sent off two quick emails. One to Ned to call off the search, and one to Gail to begin a new one. He needed answers and to get them he needed to dig into the past.

Reaching for his phone, he pulled open Gails response. It was short and sweet, and after reading it for the tenth time, he downed the last of his pint, said goodnight to the lads and left the pub. The bed and breakfast was across the street, but instead of going in and up to bed, he walked quickly towards his car and climbed in.

He’d only had one drink, he was fine to drive.

With a flick of a button the car came to life, and after connecting his Bluetooth, he selected the number Gail had sent and pulled out onto the road. It rang and rang and he was just considering hanging up when a breathless female voice answered.

“Hello.”

“Good evening,” he responded, surprised. He been expecting a man not a woman, and it threw him for a moment. “I’m not sure if I have the right number, but I was looking for a Mr Frank Randell.”

“Oh, of course. Yes, this is his number, excuse me one second and I’ll get him for you.” She rushed out in a sweet, melodic voice. He could hear the soft tapping of her heels as she moved quickly to find him, and the sound of muffled voices in the background. “Frank, there’s a call for you.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know.” She admitted, and Jamie could almost hear the shrug in her voice. It was followed by an impatient huff and soft crackling as the phone changed hands.

“Frank Randell.”

“Mr Randell. I’m looking for some information with regards to an old Scottish property.” He explained as he turned right onto the long road that would lead him back to Lallybroch. “I believe you’re something of an expert in that field?”

“That’s right…Mr?”

“Fraser.”

“Mr Fraser. My areas of expertise are the Jacobite risings and the clearance, but I do delve into other aspects of Scottish history. What kind of information are you looking for?”

“I’ve recently acquired a property about forty miles outside Inverness. I’m looking into its early history, and the people that lived there in the seventeen forties. Around about the time of the second rising.”

The line went quiet for a moment, but he heard the rustling of papers, and the soft creak of a chair as he sat down.

“Fraser.” He mumbled quietly to himself. “Are you referring to Beaufort? I had heard that it changed hands recently. It went to a…different branch of the family I believe.”

“No.” Jamie sighed. Christ this man was quick. It had taken him less than a minute to work out who he was.“I have my own team of historians working on Beaufort. This is personal. I need it kept separate and managed discreetly.”

“Alexander Malcom.” Randell surmised quietly, the sudden awe in his voice making Jamie roll his eyes.

“Yes. But again, it’s not a business request. If I decide to offer you the job, and you accept, then you’ll be invoicing me directly. Not my company. Is it something you’d be interested in?”

“Yes, of course.” He rushed out. “My wife and I are admirers of your work, Mr Fraser. And from a professional point of view, what you’ve accomplished for the heritage in such a short amount of time, is fascinating.”

_And completely irrelevant to this conversation._

“Thank you, but I assure you, I haven’t done it alone. But as my people are tied up in the heritage projects…”

“Of course, of course. I’ve obviously done a lot of research on the highland clans from that era. It’s highly likely that I already have some of the information you’re looking for. What is it that you require?”

“I have a list of names and a rough time frame. I want everything that can be found on them from the day they were born, until the day they died.

“If you text your address details to this number, I’ll have my lawyer courier over a confidentiality agreement. Once we have it signed I’ll send you everything you need to get started.”

“Okay.” Randell hedged hesitantly. “But most of the information you’re looking for is a matter of public record. It hardly requires confidentiality when anyone can find it.”

“The historical reference, yes.” Jamie agreed as he turned left on to the dirt track. “But I’ll be supplying you with personal information about myself and my family, and giving you access to private historical documents. I don’t trust easily, Mr Randell, and I don’t want to see the information published in a new Oxford journal.”

“Completely understandable. Send over the paperwork and I’ll be happy to sign it.”

“Good, I’ll have it to you tomorrow. Once it’s back with my attorney, I’ll give you a call and we can go though the details.”

“Splendid. I look forward to working with you, Mr Fraser.”

“We’ll talk soon.” He disconnected the call, and stayed sat in the car at the front of the house as he composed an email to Ned.

He needed the confidentiality agreement to be iron clad. He didn’t know this man from Adam, and if he found out about Claire’s diary, he didn’t want his insanity splashed all over the tabloids.

Not that he actually thought he was insane anymore. Fergus and Hugh had both seen the diary, and Hugh had clearly read her most recent entry. The one that had been written about her encounter with _him._

To be honest, he no longer knew _what_ to think. Every time he attempted to come up with a new explanation his mind went completely blank. He was out of logic and it was frustrating the hell out of him. He didn’t believe in the supernatural, but he was suddenly faced with the very real possibility that the house was actually haunted.

_But surely ghosts can’t write in a fucking diary?_

He scrubbed his hand across his face and took a deep breath, before climbing out of the car. It was just after sunset, but it wasn’t quite dark yet, and he took a moment to look up at the house as he fished the keys out of his pocket.

It looked like a haunted house, he couldn’t deny that. With a few boarded up windows, crumbling stones, and small saplings springing out of the pointing. It was a classic horror movie in the making. He was sure that if he searched YouTube, he’d most likely find some random teen ghost hunter, roaming the halls of his house, with an amp metre and an infrared camera.

Shaking his head, he walked up the front steps and opened the door. It was almost pitch black inside, so flipped on a couple of lights as he made his way down the hall, and up the winding staircase to his room. He’d purposefully left the diary on the windowsill, rather than under the mattress. He wanted to see if it would move, and what her reaction would be to finding it there: if she had one at all.

And if she really did exist.

It hadn’t escaped his notice that, although the year was different, the date coincided with his. Today was the 17th June, and although she didn’t write everyday, he was hoping that moving the diary would encourage her to do so.

“Yeah, ye still fucking crazy.” He huffed as he walked into the room, heading straight for the window. He was attempting to communicate with a bloody ghost, like some crackpot medium, and if that wasn’t a sign that he was crazy, he didn’t know what was.

It was with a deep sense of disappointment that he saw the book still sat where he’d left it. It hadn’t moved an inch, and when he flipped it open, the last entry was the same. Closing it gently, he moved backwards and sat on the end of the bed.

He didn’t have a fucking clue what to make of it all. If she _was_ a ghost, the two incidences could have been a freak anomaly, where their aurora collided or some cosmic shit like that. But her being a spirit didn’t explain how she was still going about her life like it was 1747. Everyone she loved was apparently still there with her. She’d delivered a baby the night before he’d arrived, and she had people searching the house for _him._

And it didn’t explain the garden he’d seen.

So what was it then? Some kind of rift in the fabric of time? A worm hole? Did the diary exist in two places at once?

He looked over at it and frowned. Jesus Christ, he felt like a complete twat even thinking it, but it randomly made sense in his warped mind. It was impossible, but it would explain why it looked so new.

It _was_ new.

So many things in the house must have changed since she’d lived here. The house itself had changed and been extended, he’d seen the makings on the original blueprints. But she made no reference to any of it, so she _must_ be in 1747. Even the mattress she so diligently hid her diary beneath, would have been replaced numerous times before he’d swapped it out for his air bed.

But maybe the bed-frame was the same, and the bedside table. The two places he’d found the diary.

So where had it been when it had disappeared from the bottom of the bed? Had she placed it on a piece of furniture that no longer existed? Or had it vanished because she was writing in it?

Was he actually really considering this?

He was a rational, twenty first century business man. Renowned and respected across the globe. Yet here he was seriously considering that he’d found some kind of…what?

A talisman to the past? Physical proof that Einstein and Hawkins were right? A link to a long dead ancestor?

Was she an ancestor? Had she eventually married William Fraser? Was she his great, great, great, great grandmother or something? Or was it a parallel universe? Everybody seemed to have the same Goddamn names. Surely that wasn’t normal.

“Jesus, Jamie! What about any of this is fucking normal?” He growled as he pushed to his feet and walked back towards the window. He needed to get the historical information from Randell so he could find out once and for all.

He reached for the diary, wanting to read through it again, but as his fingers brushed against the leather it disappeared.

“Shit!” He hissed, jumping back in shock, one hand still outstretched, and the other clutching his suddenly pounding heart. “Jesus fucking Christ! It disappeared. It actually disappeared.” He gasped, backing away, then moving forward again to quickly check behind the curtain, and on the floor. “Motherfucker!”

It was gone, vanished, just like that.

He suddenly didn’t know what to do with himself. His body was flooded with so much adrenaline that he was physically shaking, and he couldn’t keep still. He paced the space between the window and the door, over and over, backwards and forwards, until he suddenly stopped and turned to face the bed.

Surely if she was writing in the diary, then when she was finished she’d place it under the mattress or on the bedside table. If that was the case, he wanted to see the exact moment that it reappeared. Reaching for his pillows and sleeping bag, he dropped them to the floor, grabbed the air bed, and set the whole thing up in front of the door.

Then he sat down and waited.

And waited and waited.

For over an hour he sat staring at the place he expected it to turn back up. He barely even blinked, and although he was desperate for a piss, he didn’t move. This was huge, really fucking huge, and he was so agitated, he was surprised that his shitty heart hadn’t completely given out.

But there wasn’t even a twinge. It just pounded rapidly in his chest, pumping more and more adrenaline through his blood stream.

_How much is she writing?_

If she was writing at all. His theory could be a load of crap, and in the morning he might be going back to the drawing board. But if she was…Jesus, he didn’t know. Trying to wrap his head around something like that was migraine inducing. God help him if anyone ever found out. The government would slap him with the official secrecy act before he could blink, and he’d probably be thrown in the loony bin.

Or assassinated.

Most likely the latter. The ramifications of being able to communicate with someone from the past were astronomical. It could completely change history.

If the diary worked both ways.

And there was no evidence to say that it did. For now it had disappeared, and who was to say that it would ever show up again?

He sighed and lent back against the wall attempting to ease the pressure of his aching bladder. There was an empty water bottle on the floor by the bed, and if the diary didn’t turn up soon, he was going to have to bite the bullet and piss in it. It was either that, or peeing out of the window. Neither was appealing, but desperate times and all that.

He rubbed at his newly formed stubble, then almost fell on his arse, as he jumped to his feet and dived across the room.

It was back!

As quickly as it had disappeared it had reappeared on the bedside table, and he snatched it up and quickly flipped to the last entry.

_Holy mother of God!_

> _Saturday 17th June 1747_
> 
> _Who are you?_
> 
> _Where are you?_
> 
> _How are you getting into my room?_
> 
> _I locked the door this morning, safe in the knowledge that no other person in the house has a key, and that my possessions would be safe from the prying eyes of a stranger. Yet you have been here again, I know you have._
> 
> _Why?_
> 
> _What do you want from me?_
> 
> _If Jonathan has sent you to play games with my mind, you can inform him that it will not work. If his savagery failed to break me, I can assure you that his parlour tricks will be as unsuccessful._
> 
> _I am not mad, and he will not make me so._
> 
> _I will not lie and say that I am unafraid of him, there would be no point, you have already stollen that truth from my mind. But I will not cower before him, there is nothing he can do that has not already been done._
> 
> _But that being said, being a pawn in the games of a sick and twisted man, does not explain your ability to walk through walls. Nor does it shed light on your vanishing act._
> 
> _Without your propensity to move inanimate objects, I’d presume you a ghost, but that is not the case is it? You are as real as I am, for you have held my diary in your hands, just as I know you are now._
> 
> _So tell me, sir, what exactly it is that you hope to achieve? Are you attempting to scare me? Are you planning to hurt me? Or are you simply a voyeur to my life, intending to pry out all of my secrets?_
> 
> _With no wish to disappoint you, allow me to say that your endeavours are in vain. I do not fear you. You can not possibly hurt me more than I already have been. And my life is invariably dull._
> 
> _But by all means, pray continue, for you will soon find the truth to my words for yourself, and I will gladly say that I told you so._


End file.
